Storge
by Bentobox98
Summary: Inspired by a tumblr post. In which Harleen Quinzel and Bruce Wayne have a history.
1. Storge

_Earth 524_

**_United States_**

**_Gotham_**

**_Wayne Manor_**

Bruce stepped back from the hearth, candle in hand, gazing at the first lit wick of the menorah. A melancholy smile tugged at the edges of his eyes and lips.

"I didn't know you were Jewish."

He turned to see his fiancée, Selina Kyle, standing at the threshold. Her caramel skin shimmering like gold in the firelight, matched in beauty only by her midnight hair and her flaming amber eyes.

"I'm not. It's... for an old friend. Should they ever decide to stop by for the holidays."

"Seems a bit odd to do that when you don't know they're coming. Anyone I know?"

"Yeah. Went to med-school with me. I can't tell you how many times we woke up drooling over our textbooks and notes."

A crisp British voice sailed gently from the kitchen.

"342, sir."

Bruce couldn't help but chuckle.

"So, who is it you're prepping for?"

"You're not going to believe me."

"Bruce, in the past two years, I have seen you first don the cape and cowl, redesign it twice, fight a giant sized cannibal with skin that could shave a balloon, and nearly get blown up by a clown at least six different times. Do I need to add my own exploits, or do you think I can handle the oh-so-secret identity of your study-buddy?"

Bruce sighed with an amused smile.

"Alright, I get your point, but I'm telling you, you won't believe me."

"Try me."

**_Abandoned Warehouse_**

Harleen Quinzel was having a hard time. Joker was on another tirade about how 'Bats' had thwarted his latest schemes.

Just the thought of that man made her blood boil. Or at least it would if her blood wasn't frozen by the Joker's anger. Or spilled by the occasional hit.

She swore up and down to Pam that he didn't hit her often. Only about once a... day. Sometimes more. Rarely less.

Okay, maybe Pam was onto something about Joker not being the best. But where else did she have to go? As much as she loved Ivy, both of them had doubts about cohabitation. Especially if J. was still around. But neither of them could kill him. It'd break Harley's poor little heart.

She'd never admit to it, but sometimes, in those fleeting moments of sanity, she wondered how her life would move forward if the Bat ever went over that line in the sand.

Thinking of the Bat with all the rest going through her mind... why did she dislike him so much? Is it because he wanted to stop the Joker? Hadn't that been why she asked to assess the Joker? It was. She wanted to analyze him, get him to trust her, and one day, maybe rehabilitate. _He_ had once told her that he wasn't sure that the Joker could be saved, but he put his faith in her.

_"I'm sure that if anyone can pull the gun from his hands, it'll be you, Harls."_

Oh God.

How long had it been since she thought of him?

One year, two months, two weeks, and five days.

Why did she remember that?

Oh yeah, that's when she first joined the Joker.

She shuffled into her room. Scattered toy parts and a dusty old mattress.

She had to admit, she hated these hideouts. The rats, the dust, the mold.

Thinking about _him_ made her think of all the times he invited her into his home for the night. The warm food, freshly made. The damn luxurious bed, set aside just for her in the guest room.

She walked over to her old steamer trunk, and pulled out a wooden box. Opening the box, she removed the polished brass menorah from its place. Reverantly, she placed the candles, and with a silent prayer, she lit the first one.

Only to choke back tears as a drip in the ceiling snuffed out the little light.

She curled into a ball on her mattress, and sobbed into her pillow.

_'I'm sorry, Bruce. I'm so sorry I didn't listen.'_


	2. Two

His cackling laughter tore through the air like a jagged blade, as he ran along the rooftops, a river of sound and flame following in his wake as he left "party favors" for the bat.

She was growing tired keeping up with her clown prince of crime, not to mention the occasional blast scoring her every so often.

They were swiftly approaching the docking station, where they had prepared a speedboat for their escape, but Batman was too fast, he was catching up and they were ill prepared for a fight.

The dark knight sailed over them and silently landed, facing them as his cape cascaded to the floor and meldided with the shadows.

"Alright, Bats, it would appear that you've caught up to us. But I have one question for you!"

Harley was very confused by his lack of action, only for her confusion to become shocked horror, the realization of what he was doing only striking her with the hammer of his revolver.

"Her life or me?"

He didn't wait for a response, simply running and cackling madly once again.

Of course, Batman didn't hesitate. Despite what others may think of him, despite his strategic mind always seemingly putting the mission first, _this_ is why he donned the cape and cowl.

All he wanted to do was save people.

As he hefted her up, already moving to the bat-mobile's position, he felt his fire reignite with the same intensity as he had years ago. As he placed her gently into the car, he felt his resolve reach new heights.

This time he would save his family.

"Alfred, prep my table. Gunshot wound to the lower abdomen, no exit wound. The bullet's inside, potentially shattered."

"Sir, I was tracing your position, I wasn't aware that the Joker could stay ahead with a hostage."

"It wasn't a hostage. Alfred... it's Harleen."

The silence was palpable.

He heard the voice of his caretaker, as proper as always, but clipped with the seething rage of a veteran of her majesty's secret service.

"I'll have everything ready for you, sir. And I _will_ be preparing the guest room. It has been some time since I dusted. Shall I inform Miss Kyle, or Master Dick?"

"No, I'll handle it. Thank you, Alfred."

She was in a daze. The man she had devoted herself to for years had just shot her. The Joker had just shot her.

And he _laughed_.

Then the Bat swooped in. She wondered what he was going to do.

Would he torture her?

Beat her?

Berate her?

Interrogate her?

Kill her?

She was so entranced by her own train of thought, she barely registered that they had stopped.

She weakly struggled against his arms, though her strength had poured out with her blood.

She couldn't mover her legs when she was laid upon the table.

She could barely move her fingers when surgical scissors removed her clothes.

Her eyes were on the verge of closing when a mask was lowered to her face, and the pinprick of an I.V pierced her arm.

She felt the strangest sensation of comfort and discomfort. The warmth of her surroundings, the softness of her bed, the smooth silky feel of her pajamas.

All of it capped on each end by the aching pain in her stomach, and the fact that she owned neither a bed nor these pajamas.

She opened her eyes to a near pitch black room, illuminated only by the heart monitor next to her bed.

The darkness seemed to creep inward, crawling over and into her skin, turning the air she breathed to daggers seeking to rip and tear at her throat. The steady beeping of the machine began to drill itself into her head, and with each pained breath, the drill turned ever faster.

Despite the pain, she struggled to rise, only finding that her wrists were bound.

She began to cry out in panic, and nearly shrieked when the door flew open, showing only the silhouette of a man.

He kept his arms wide and his hands open as he slowly approached her.

"Harleen, it's okay. You're safe. It's me. It's Bruce. You remember your Brucie?"

As her eyes adjusted to the new source of light and she listened to his voice, the panicked racing of the monitor began to slow.

"Bruce?"

He walked over to a lamp and turned it on.

True to his words, there he was. She knew the lines of his face, and the color of his eyes.

She was silent as he sat down on the edge of her bed and procured a key. He uncuffed her from the frame without a word.

As she rubbed her wrists, she looked around the room.

It was _her_ room. Not just some guest room, not a hospital room, and certainly not her cell in Arkham. _Her room_.

Everything was as clean as it ever was when she was here. It was even still organized the same. She could tell because the books on a shelf were organized her own way. Alphabetically, by the first word of chapter one of each book. Not the title, author, or even foreword, chapter one, word one.

She remembered how amused Alfred was, and how absolutely confuddled Bruce was.

She looked at him, still sitting there silently. And with tears in her eyes she practically threw her arms around him.

He was right.

Here, she would be safe.


End file.
